I opened my arms. “Come here.”
He hugged me, and we stood with our cheeks pressed together while I breathed him in. Cold air, cologne, and a hint of sweat. All Pack. He held me like he never wanted to let go.
“Long day,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Everyone’s watching us,” he said. “Waiting for something to happen.”
“I know.”
“You sure I didn’t disappoint you?”
My throat tightened. I pulled him closer until we were chest to chest, our heartbeats in sync. “I’m sure,” I said, then kissed the top of his head. I wanted to tell him I was disappointed in myself, but that would have only made things harder.
He lifted his face and brushed his lips against mine. Instead of being playful or hungry, the kiss was careful, a silent plea for reassurance.
“We’re okay,” I whispered. “I want to be with you, Pack. No matter what happens or where we are.”
We stayed like that until he relaxed. He placed his hands on my waist and rested his forehead against mine. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm again.
“Let’s go to bed,” he said. “We’ll order food later.”
I smiled. “Perfect.”
He laced our fingers together and led me toward the bedroom. Halfway there, I glanced at him. His smile was small but real, and my heart finally slowed down.
By the bed, holding each other again, he shivered. No matter what happened, I had to take care of him. We’d get through this together.
32/
nico
Two Weeks Later: Miami
The soundof the ocean pulled me awake. Gray-blue leaked around the edges of the drapes, and Pack’s arm was heavy across my chest. The heat of his body against mine was only an echo of what we’d shared the night before.
Spending the night together had been a gift from the hockey gods. The Warriors rarely got a free day in Miami, and since the Condors flew in early for our own game, Pack and I found time we shouldn’t have had. With the league outreach mission winding down, we hadn’t seen each other in almost two weeks. The hunger, physical and mental, had affected my game.
A cart rolled by in the hallway. Pack moaned, then shifted enough to kiss my neck.
“What time is it?”
I checked the clock. “Five-thirty.”
“Shit. Breakfast is coming at six, flight at eight.” He shifted closer. “Goddamn front office.”
I slid my fingers into his chest hair. “There’s time. Sleep a little more.”
He rested his head on my shoulder. We talked about safe things like the Warriors’ upcoming home stretch, the Condors’ game against Miami tonight, and how wrong it felt to play hockey in subtropical heat.
But underneath the sleepy conversation, he was tense. He kept starting to say something and then stopping.
“So… um…”
Nothing.
Then: “Fuck. Never mind.”
